


The Conclusion of the Second Voldemort Wars: A Brief Story

by Moon Faery (tsukinofaerii)



Category: Final Fantasy XII, Harry Potter - Rowling, Kingdom Hearts, Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Crack, Crossover, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-22
Updated: 2010-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-08 05:51:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukinofaerii/pseuds/Moon%20Faery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The not-so-dramatic end of the Second Voldemort War, as told by a student in History of Magic. Worlds collide, battles are fought and the art of Home Décor will never be the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Conclusion of the Second Voldemort Wars: A Brief Story

**Author's Note:**

> I shoe-horned in names, I admit it. But it's a giftfic, so I have no shame. :P  
> Also, Lyaka would like to officially make it known that she did not request an insert. In fact, no one did. This is aaaaall me.

Kaitlin draped herself across her desk, forehead pressed to her paper and quill at the ready, as though that would help. Her red hair tumbled around her, not _quite_ obscuring her face. She'd learned that the only time Binns would take note of the students he taught was when he couldn't see their faces or when they did something monumentally eye-catching. Fireworks helped, but that was an accident she didn't want to repeat. All around her, her fellow first-year Hufflepuffs were collapsing too, though mostly with less melodrama. She knew the topic, she knew the story. She even knew the people involved.

She could _ace_ this test.

She hoped.

The professor, as honored a ghost as any but a ghost nonetheless, floated across the front of the classroom in an artful imitation of pacing. "Your topic," Binns intoned in his dreadfully flat voice, "is the end of the Second Voldemort Wars. Eighteen inches of parchment. You have one hour. Begin."

Sticking her tongue out of the corner of her mouth, the young witch set quill to paper and began.

> In the year 1997, Harry Potter defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort in the Battle of Hogwarts. ~~All was well.~~ Everything pretty much sucked. The clean up effort took years, and Hogwarts was never really the same. Then in 2007 some idiot demon brought him back again ~~because only demons are that stupid~~ and he spent the next twelve years terrorizing the Americas. ~~No one really noticed.~~ So in 2019 was the Great Murgle when Muggles and Wizards and the rest of the ~~bloody~~ worlds couldn't ignore each other any more, because hello! Dark Wizard on the loose! ~~Again.~~ Which is why I'm even in Hogwarts, so maybe I should be grateful. Otherwise I'd be stuck on Destiny Islands probably learning to fish or something, and 

Ten minutes later Kaitlin stared down at her work, her quill leaving a giant dripping blob where it rested. Quills just didn't work as well on normal paper, but her ballpoint pens had all turned into leaky messes as soon as she'd arrived at Hogwarts.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

She couldn't do it. None of it. Pen, quill or sharpie marker, it just wouldn't come. Unless she used inch-high letters or at least half of it was nonsense, she was going to miss the eighteen inches mark by a long shot. And Binns wouldn't buy the old "big writing and bull" trick that much. Even just getting the introduction done had been painful to write, and it was junk. And she was supposed to make a paper out of _that_?

She fell over her desk dramatically again, earning a glance from absolutely no one. They were probably all having the same problem she was. Privately, she bet herself a bar of Honeyduke's Dark that they'd all gone the easy route. Wimps.

It wasn't like it wasn't an interesting story. Just... not essay material.

But Binns hadn't said "essay", had he?

Her eyes narrowed as she stared down at her half-begun first paragraph. An idea began to churn through her head, vaguely dark in intent but mostly just something to get her through the test. Resolutely, she balled up her first attempt and tossed it to the front, where it went through the Professor's head without causing him more than a shimmer. Then, for the second time, she started to write.

***

_2007: A Brief Prologue_

Short, calloused fingers shuffled through the items that littered rows and rows of dusty, abandoned shelves in the storage locker. Hellfire-yellow eyes gleamed in the darkness—they tended to, when he didn't let his meatsuit control things. The locker had long since been forgotten by those who had inherited it, if they even knew it existed, and the only man who knew what all was piled in there had been dead and ashes for months. No one would give him any trouble. Azazel knew this last for a fact. He'd personally dragged the elder Winchester's soul down to Hell, kicking and cursing the whole way. Every now and then, he even dropped by for a visit.

That had been about the only thing that had gone right. It had been a bad century for Hell. Three Keyblade Masters born, so many messiahs popping up like cockroaches, and even his own little antichrist was looking to be _good_, after everything he'd done. Two apocalyptic wars prevented. Even the _mouse king_ managed to close off the worlds before the Heartless thing had done any real damage.

It was time to try something new. Or rather, old.

Finally, after looking through piles of mementos and silly little curse boxes, his fingers closed around the prize. It was an old stick, carved from yew and twisted with use. He could feel the power buzzing in it, formed of blood and painful death, creating something from the fragments of a soul that only a monster could admire. Let the Winchester boys keep their father's little curse boxes and spellbooks. Azazel knew the _real_ treasure in the mildew and trash.

He stroked the wand, twirling it in his fingers to get a feel for the deadly little thing. It pulsed, as if the soul tied to it knew that freedom from the depths of Hell was near. Time, death and damnation might have brought on madness that would only increase as years passed, but as far as Azazel was concerned, that was all part of the fun.

"Well, howdy there, Tommy boy. How would you like to be free again?"

***

_Christmas Eve, 2024_

The home office of the International Minister of Magic was made cozy by a crackling fire. It was expensively furnished in dark woods and leathers, but cluttered and well-used. Maps of the globe had been stuck to the wall, some with tacks and some with magic, each of them illustrating some sort of information vital to the war effort. Books were scattered across any available surface, and more than one had notes used as markers. It was not the official offices, but they had been declared too risky for daily work two years prior, and no one had been able to find a way to make them both public and safe.

The current Minister, Larsa Solidor, bent over his desk, quill scratching away at his latest work. He was the youngest Minister ever elected, taking office four years prior at the age of thirty-five, but so few remained who were qualified for the position that there'd been little choice. More and more the world was given over to the younger generation, as the older stagnated or perished.

Sometimes it seemed like the war would never end. Five years could be an eternity when lived rather than read in a history book. If Voldmeort hadn't been completely insane, the war would have been easier and shorter both. But it was guerilla warfare, rather than any sort of pitched fight. He struck without warning, chose his targets randomly and ignored casualties. There was nothing to be done but respond and hope that eventually the Death Eaters would make a mistake.

Larsa was so completely absorbed that he didn't notice when the door behind him opened and snicked closed, nor when socked feet padded across the rug. Only when warm, slender arms wrapped around his shoulders from behind did his head lift at all. "Penelo?"

Penelo rested her cheek against her husband's, shamelessly peering over his shoulder at his work. "You're still working? It's Christmas Eve."

She'd abandoned her robes already for the night, and had reverted to her usual Muggle jeans. True Muggle clothes were rare these days, since the Third Voldemort War had forced the worlds to merge, but Penelo preferred them. None of Larsa's arguments that they made her a more visible Death Eater target in a crowd had changed her mind.

"Christmas is precisely the time when the Dark Lord most loves to strike," he reminded her, leaning back in his chair and wincing as his back popped. He was young for a wizard, but some days he felt positively ancient. "Our guard goes down, whether we intend it or no, and I will not have another Boxing Day Massacre."

She hummed, settling her chin on his shoulder as her hands slipped down his chest. Her lovely, long blonde curls slipped over his shoulders, freed from their usual utilitarian braids. "Yes, but that's what your generals are for. Come to bed."

His head turned to give her an arch look. "And Jessica? The twins?"

"In bed, pretending to sleep in case Saint Nicolas checks on them." A warm, amused laugh purred in his ear. "I think it still confuses the twins. They just know there'll be presents in the morning."

"In that case—" The suggestion he'd been about to make died as the flames in the fireplace sputtered and sheeted upwards, turning emerald. A familiar face appeared in the flames, complete with famous glasses. But for all its familiarity, time had done its work. Lines crinkled the corners of his eyes, and even at only forty-three Potter's messy hair was streaked with grey from a life hard-lived.

Larsa drew away from his wife's arms. "Yes? What is it?"

"Minister..." The Ministry's top general licked his lips and glanced over his shoulder at someone. "You should come to Hogwarts. It's not an emergency, but... Well..." His head turned sharply, then vanished from view as another face replaced his.

"Oh, bugger off, Potter, and let an adult handle this." Major Draco Malfoy's features had only grown narrower with age and war, but amusement deepened the lines and made him look positively vulpine. "Minister, the Winchesters are back from their reconnaissance mission. It's important."

War, Larsa knew, continued on even when the gentle pleasures of family beckoned. He sighed. "I'll be there in a moment."

A thin, cruel smile lit up Draco's face. He'd always been one to have poor taste in jokes, as Larsa knew it, and had it not been for the concern on Harry's features Larsa would have suspected this to be another one. "We'll leave the floo open. You really should hear this, sir."

***

The floo, as always, left Larsa dusted with soot. He brushed it off, glancing around the Headmaster's office. Every time he found himself at Hogwarts for a strategy meeting, he was struck by how things had changed in the nearly thirty years since he'd been Sorted into Slytherin House. The war had forced magic and technology to learn to co-exist, and nothing showed that more than the screen that stretched from wall to wall over the fireplace, looking very much like a Muggle television. Runes and arithmancy kept it protected from the magic that ran rampant through the very bricks of the building, but an occasional surge still caused the display to fuzz.

"Larsa!" Sora beamed at him from the screen, looking even more energetic than usual. His hair was worse than even Potter's, sticking up in long brown spikes that Larsa only knew were natural because he'd seen his hair like that even after a swim. Behind him was a cluttered mess of a war room and, incongruously, a baby bouncer. "Merry Christmas!"

"Happy Christmas to you as well, Sora. Is Riku well?"

The wielder of the Keyblade smiled even wider, a fatuous expression Larsa knew well from his own newlywed days. "He's fantastic. Right now he's giving Kaitlin a bath. Kairi dropped her off with us for the weekend."

That explained Sora's energy, then. Since his goddaughter had been born, his moods could be timed by her visits. Larsa thought the boy might have wanted a child of his own, but he'd never felt comfortable asking. It seemed like the sort of thing that could be a tender subject. "I hope this doesn't take too much of your time."

Someone cleared his throat. "It won't."

When Larsa turned, he saw two men sprawled on an elderly but well-stuffed brown sofa. For all their loose-limbed poses, they bore a subtle air about them that said they would be on their feet at a moment's notice, and that they were waiting for that moment. Strong but weathered features showed their age more than their hair—both of them bore only traces of the silver that so prominently graced his own dark head, though he knew them both for his elder.

The alert blankness in their expressions spoke of the Muggle military. But the same thing in their eyes disturbed Larsa more than he cared to admit. He always found himself wondering how close the Winchester brothers trod the line of sanity. The only person either would trust entirely was the other, which made them the best partnered spies the Ministry had ever had. At least, they were dependable as long as it was in their own interests.

Some risks had to be taken. But he noticed that Malfoy and Potter still kept their wands close to hand, even though they were sitting in their own armchairs off to the side.

"Sam. Dean." The Minister nodded at each of them, not at all insulted when they didn't respond. It was simply their way. "We didn't expect to see you yet. Did all go well?"

The taller, Sam, nodded wearily and leaned on his brother. An emotion almost like amusement flitted through his dead eyes so quickly it might have been a trick of the lighting. "Voldemort thinks our covers—Jared and Jensen, it'll be in the report—are on their honeymoon. In the Caribbean. He even gave us a fruit basket and asked for a souvenir."

The wall clock ticked by a minute as the Minister waited for some sort of clarification. Draco's teeth were showing in a grin, and Harry just twirled his wand nervously. On the screen, Sora rocked back and forth on his heels. They all seemed to be waiting for his response.

"I—" Larsa blinked helplessly, completely at a loss. A statement that outrageous called for someone to at least be holding back a grin. But when he looked around him, even Sora had a serious mien. It _had_ to be a joke, but the Winchesters wouldn't have left their assignment for the sake of a _prank_. He hoped. "A fruit basket? Really?"

"With kiwis," Dean confirmed in his thick American accent. "And strawberries. And those freaky star-looking things from Destiny Island. It's real nice work. We've already sent a thank you card from Bermuda."

Clarification or not, Larsa didn't feel any more enlightened than he had after that first cryptic floo call. Less, in fact. "You realize you sound completely insane, don't you?"

"They're not." Potter rubbed his forehead, where his scar was faded and dormant. His connection to Voldemort had died with him at the Battle of Hogwarts, and not even the most vicious of atrocities had revived it. "If anyone's cracked like a nutshell, it's Voldemort. That's what we called you here for."

"You think you've seen horror, Minister?" Dean's grey-green eyes closed tiredly as he leaned his head on his brother's shoulder. "We just spent a week hearing raunchy newlywed jokes from Snake Eyes. I've already put in for a memory charm after this is done."

"He started decorating Azkaban last week," Sam added, running his fingers through his dirty blond hair. "It's all in pastels now. We thought it's been quiet because they were building up to a major holiday attack, but it was Martha Stewart Christmas reruns."

"I see... no. No, I do not see." Larsa's deep blue robe twisted around his ankles as he whirled on Malfoy. "You know best how the upper echelons of the Death Eaters work. Could this be a trick?"

"Not a chance. Appearances are everything in that set. They'd rather die than fake something like this." Draco shook his head sharply, then brushed his silvering fringe away when it fell into his eyes. "It's just a matter of time before they take action of some sort. Trouble is, I don't know what sort. The Dark Lord's not exactly replaceable."

Tension began to build in Larsa's forehead, threatening a headache as he considered the possibilities. Voldemort had always been insane, but it had been a focused sort of insanity, the kind that led to bodies rather than knitting. He'd been _usefully_ insane, which was probably the only reason he lasted as the leader of the Death Eaters. But if he'd become an encumbrance rather than an asset, it wouldn't take long before someone decided to Do Something. The enemy could, in a stretch, find a new leader. It was unlikely, but a possibility they had to face. A new leader would bring in new tactics, goals—even new targets. It would take months to adjust to the changes, and when too many battles were won by a hair's-breadth and luck, that was time they couldn't afford.

Worse, the Death Eaters could attempt one last, all-or-nothing attack before Voldemort became unmanageable. They'd been careful so far. It would do them no good to destroy the world they wanted to take over. But they had the Heartless, an army that built itself from the downed enemy, and enough resources to decimate the entirety of Western Europe and the United Kingdoms. In the face of that sort of assault, the defenders would be helpless.

"Sora, is everything normal there?" The Minister raised his eyes to the screen. "A build-up of Heartless or any other signs of imminent threat?"

"Nothing's changed at all here. It's been dead quiet. Mickey's keeping an eye open. If anything happens, we should have some kind of warning." The Keyblade Master's usual fidgeting grew worse as he met Larsa's eyes with a nervous grin. "But—um, I might know how this happened. Sort of."

The headache ceased threatening and arrived with full force at the front of Larsa's skull. He should have expected Sora to have a hand in any turn of events this strange. "What did you do this time?"

"It's not my fault! Ask Sam and Dean!" Sora's thin shoulders straightened indignantly. "I just mentioned the war to Kumori, who told Wendy who told Peter. _He's_ the one that did it."

Larsa raised a questioning eyebrow. "Peter... Pan?" When he received a series of quick nods in acknowledgement, he turned back to his informants. "And what could the leader of the Lost Boys have to do with Voldemort's madness?"

"Pixy dust." Dean rolled his eyes. "I don't know what the damned fairy did, but we spotted her poking around the place about a week ago. Didn't think anything of it until Snake Eyes started picking out curtains."

A choking noise came from Harry's seat. He looked completely confused. "Could fairy dust do that?"

"I don't know," Sora admitted. "Usually it just makes you fly, and I think one type's kind of like poison ivy, but with the horcrux thing and all that dark magic... Two resurrections... Who knows? I don't think anyone even understands how it works except the fairies, and they're not telling."

"What do we do then?" Silence greeted Larsa's question. Only the occasional buzz from the screen or pop of flames in the fireplace broke it. Not even the usually blunt Dean would meet his eyes. "I see. I suppose the only thing _to_ do is wait, and prepare. In the meantime, all of you get some rest." His lips curled into a small, bleak smile. "It's Christmas."

***

Christmas or no, that night Larsa stayed at Hogwarts, after flooing Penelo to let her know the plans. She'd protested, of course, but not very forcefully. This was the second Christmas Eve in a row he'd be sleeping elsewhere. But if something unexpected happened, no one would be able to afford the time to retrieve him. She knew that as well as he did.

It was a prescient decision.

Just after dawn on Christmas morning, a House Elf knocked on the door of the guest room he'd taken for the night, and then thrust it open with a lack of manners normally more closely associated with students. Larsa sat up in bed with a start as the tiny elf bounced impatiently, gesturing windmill-like as it babbled its messages.

"Sir, Sir, Minister-sir must come to the Great Hall! Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter say Minister-sir _must_ come!" It clutched its precious red bobble hat, the latest fashion among freed elves, as its thrashing threatened to knock it off. "Hurry, hurry they say! The Dark Lord is in Hogwarts and demands biscuits with tea! Dress and hurry!" Then it was gone, presumably to wake someone else.

There wasn't much else Larsa could do but dress in yesterday's clothes and hurry the ever-changing halls, wondering what kind of bizarre mutation had happened in the original message. Everyone knew excited House Elves could confuse things. Anything to do with the war excited them. It was a second chance at glory, as far as they were concerned.

His footsteps echoed in the early-morning emptiness of the halls. Precious few students had stayed for Yule this year, which worried him. If it came to a final battle, behind the magic and ramparts of Hogwarts was the best place for them. But the Battle of Hogwarts had scared parents, many of whom were themselves veterans of that long-ago war. He couldn't blame them for not understanding that the very foundations of Hogwarts would rise up rather than allow another such event. Even the instructors who lived there were learning to cope with the changes. After a millennium of hosting young magic users and battles of the most powerful sort, the castle had grown an almost-sentience. Right now, it was confused, shifting its stairs and walls into defensive patterns and back again. The few times he touched his hand to the wall, the stones of the old place practically sizzled under his hands.

The doors to the Great Hall gave under his fingertips with barely any effort as Larsa strode through them. Every instructor at Hogwarts had gathered within, as well as the higher ranks of the Ministry and those in charge of the war effort. Even a few representatives of various Muggle governments were visible, in the serious suits and simple student-cut robes that they preferred. The Winchesters stood at alert on either side of the entrance with other guards, as perfectly still as two bookends. As the crowd noticed him, the excited buzz of conversation dimmed, until he walked in silence to the table at the head of the Hall.

"Headmistress McGonagall," he nodded at his former Transfigurations teacher, taking the seat beside her. Her hair had finally faded all to snowy white, but it only made her look more stern, rather than grandmotherly as he'd once thought it might. "Care to tell me what's happened? The message was a bit garbled."

"I expect it was more clear than you could imagine," she sighed. Out in the main area of the Hall, the collected people seated themselves under tables bearing the crest of Hogwarts, rather than their usual Houses. "But we are short of time. Now that you're here, we can begin the meeting. Neville, you were there this morning. Please explain."

The professor of Herbology stood and took his place at the podium. What had once been a thin, nervous boy Larsa vaguely recalled seeing around the greenhouses as a student had grown into a still-thin but strikingly confident man. He straightened his glasses and looked out over the gathering, as serenely as if they were only a Muggle garden and not the most powerful people in the world.

Neville began without preamble or introduction. "This morning at dawn I arrived at Greenhouse Three to check the well-being of several plants that had faired poorly under the early frost. There I discovered the Enemy, Voldemort." He paused, but voices failed to erupt. Instead, only a disbelieving silence sounded in the Hall. They reminded Larsa of Muggles who had just been handed incontrovertible proof of magic. There was an air of people waiting for the punchline.

Apparently realizing that there would be no response, Neville continued. "He appeared to be picking the winter-blooming flowers we keep for the student's pleasure. Specifically, the daisies. He'd created a crown of them and was attempting to sweep the snow off the paths. I confronted him, and he demanded to be taken to meet 'the people in charge'. He also requested tea and muffins."

The explanation continued, but Larsa sighed and rubbed his eyes, muttering to himself quietly. When Minerva glanced at him curiously, he lifted the corner of his mouth in a tired smile. "The message said he had requested biscuits."

Her lips tightened in a small acknowledgement of the irony. "Garbled, indeed."

Out in the audience, reactions were finally starting break through the general air of shock. Angry murmuring started to rise from the depths of the crowd, and more than one person had to be escorted back to their seat as they attempted to approach the head table. Noise levels rose, until it was nearly impossible to hear anything.

The representative from the U.S. Department of Magical Affairs rose to her feet with the help of her assistant. Together, the two women began a visible count down and took deep breaths. Larsa, seeing the inevitable and being well acquainted with the lungs about to be employed, plugged his ears.

"All of you, _shut the hell up_!"

Silence didn't so much fall as crash down. The main representative glared around her from behind a bright red fall of hair, as though daring someone to start speaking. She looked fully ready to shout them down, _sonorous_ or no. Her assistant didn't seem quite as belligerent, but it was clear she would do her job and assist.

"Thank you, Ms. Clex, Ms. Chii." Larsa took advantage of the sudden calm to move to the podium. Neville departed it with apparent relief and took his place with the other instructors. "I'd like to take a moment to inform you all that the U.K. Ministry was only recently made aware of potential questions regarding the Dark Lord's mental stability. We had not yet had time to verify and disseminate this knowledge, which may be why this has come as so unexpected an occurrence to many of you."

A thin woman coughed and stood in the back, hands folded serenely in front of her. When he nodded at her, she returned it calmly. "Velithya, lieutenant to the Australian Minister," she began with a noticeable accent. "What I would like to know is how he was able break into onto the grounds at all. Hogwarts is, as we often remind people, the safest place in the world. If the Enemy himself is able to simply walk through the gates, all of our assertions are null and void."

Dean coughed loudly from his station beside the door and elbowed his fellow guard. Next to him, Ron Weasley had started to turn a shade of red so bright Larsa could see it easily from across the hall.

"I can answer that," Ron hedged, fidgeting nervously. "It's my fault. When I saw Sam and Dean yesterday, I thought Jared and Jensen were back, so I put them down for guard duty." Larsa started to respond, but Ron went on to finish with, "But since J-Squared are still on assignment, no one realized what had happened until the shift change. Tieria let Mitsuo go ahead, but no one showed. I got the floo-call around eight. That must have been when Voldemort got in." When Larsa frowned, he rushed on. "We've had a talk. I handled it. But it explains a lot."

For the second time in less than twelve hours, bewilderment began to give Larsa a headache. He reminded himself to stop by the infirmary later to have Madame Eowyn check his health. Stress had felled other men before him. "I believe some explanation is still in order. They're still on assignment?"

"As hunters—in Canada, I think." When Larsa continued to look at him expectantly, Ron managed to turn an even more brilliant scarlet. "As... um, their official information says their pseudonyms are Sam and Dean Winchester? You approved the operation three months ago."

Larsa looked at the Winchesters. They looked back at him without apparent care that their names were interchangeable with another set of spies. "You mistook the two sets of operatives. I can understand the name confusion, but on sight..?"

"They look alike sir. Exactly alike." Poor Ron looked as horrendously befuddled as Larsa felt. "I never would have figured out that they Sam and Dean aren't Jared and Jensen if I hadn't talked to them."

"It's not polyjuice." Dean's voice was quiet, but so was the rest of the hall. "Just weird."

"Ah, well then." There was really no way to clear the matter up. Larsa wasn't even certain he understood entirely. He couldn't blame Ron for feeling the same. "Next time make sure the guards have reported directly to you before assigning them a post, so we don't have this mix up."

Ron nodded, looking wretchedly grateful that he wasn't being held responsible. As if anyone could be expected to deal with that sort of complication without warning. "I'll have Sam look into a policy—erm, the other Sam. Not Winchester. Or Jared—" He closed his eyes and leaned back into the wall as though he'd sink into it and hide if he could. "The female Sam. She-Sam."

Velithya nodded and resumed her seat, but not without an audible sigh. Larsa looked beyond her to the still-silent gathering. "Are there any other questions?"

"Where is he?" someone shouted from the depths of the room. Larsa scanned for the speaker, but no one stood to acknowledge the question as their own.

Minerva didn't bother standing to reply. Instead she fixed an icy stare on the audience, one perfected by years of teaching. "The Enemy is currently enjoying tea and muffins in a well-guarded holding cell. He has surrendered his wand, and Mistress Seaborne is investigating, but we have evidence which suggests it is the Lost Horcrux." When a few of the Muggles looked confused, she clarified her statement. "It may be the object which allowed his most recent revitalization."

Harry stood, and all eyes instantly settled on him. Even Larsa's, though he knew how the man hated his status as the one-time hero. "Minister, time's short. What do we do now?"

***

The cell Voldemort had been placed into was simple, but not austere by any means. It had been one of the isolation chambers in the Infirmary originally, and still bore traces of that in the soothing blue wallpaper. Directly in its center was a small table, topped by a complete tea service and finished with a skeletal man in fine robes of what appeared to be pale turquoise velvet.

As Larsa settled across from the prisoner, he couldn't help but be struck by the idea that that the Enemy seemed as sane as he ever had. Sane for a Dark Lord who was sipping tea out of floral-patterned china while picking at a muffin, at least. His expression was one of controlled menace, and his eyes tracked Lara's movements without any sign of confusion. The second resurrection had only made him more ghastly and skeleton-like, with skin a sickly pale and eyes that were sunk so far into his skull that the tell-tale red was all but hidden. Larsa had never had the displeasure of meeting him face-to-face before, but he found himself fighting an unexpected surge of pity.

Two guards settled against the door behind him, wands drawn and ready in case Voldemort attempted something unexpected. The prisoner didn't acknowledge them, or Larsa. He just continued sipping his drink with every sign of great enjoyment.

Feeling utterly at a loss, Larsa decided to simply do his best. "Good morning, sir—" He ducked as a sugar biscuit was picked up and hurled at his head.

"How many times must I tell you?" the Dark Lord demanded petuantly. "I only take tea with friends!" A second tea cup was presented pointedly, handle towards Larsa. "And I only speak over tea."

Accepting the hint for what it seemed to be, Larsa poured himself a cup. It had gone tepid, but he didn't heat it. The last thing he wanted was for the prisoner to have hot liquids at hand if matters turned dangerous. "Are we friends, sir?"

"I'd like to be." That strange blood-colored stare locked on him. When they were turned directly on him, it was clear that cataracts had started to film them over. It was a reminder that the man was approaching the end of his first century. "I wish to join the Ministry's efforts against the Death Eaters."

Larsa tried not to stare in shock for too long, covering his confusion with a sip of cool tea. The Enemy continued to ramble, as easily as if the Ministry didn't have a large bounty placed on proof of his certain and permanent death.

"I've come to the realization that the Death Eaters are bumblers. There's simply no way they'll ever be able to accomplish what they've planned. Not to mention their deplorable sense of style. Black is classic, but it can be overdone, in my humble opinion. So I'd like to join up and fight the good fight." His lips parted in a smile, showing a set of teeth ravaged by age and repeated death. "Or the winning one."

It took effort on Larsa's part not to demand to know if the man was aware that _he_ was the main focus of the Ministry's war efforts. He had no idea what effect that might have, and there was too much to be gained by playing to Voldemort's delusions. "I must admit, your help would be welcome. We are always in need of agents, and your background would make you ideal for several potential functions."

"Agents?" The bald places where there had once been eyebrows rose in curiosity. "Why is it that time and again we find our way to idle sin?"

It was clear that Voldemort thought that his question was a pertinent one. Though baffled, Larsa attempted to drive the conversation into a direction he could understand. "You have the ability to summon Death Eaters to your side, do you not?" When Voldemort nodded warily, the Minister dared to allow himself to smile. "Then I believe, my friend, that your help may be instrumental in winning this war."

***

When Larsa brought the Ministry's newest "ally" to the gathering in the Great Hall, he hadn't had the forethought to warn anyone of their arrival. He quickly regretted it.

Larsa strode down the center aisle, resolutely not meeting anyone's gaze as Voldemort followed sedately, bright yellow yarn trailing from his knitting needles. Even more than before, silence reigned supreme over the room. It was only broken by the clatter of needle against needle and an occasional bout of hysterical giggles that usually turned into a poorly manufactured coughing fit.

Sometime between their discussion over tea and their arrival in the Hall, one of the House Elves had brought the former Dark Lord a collection of needles and a basket of supplies. The basket floated behind them, bouncing jauntily until its master took a seat behind the podium at the professor's table. His two guards took stances behind him, both colored red in embarrassment. Collectively, the others at the table drew back.

Never before had so many world leaders been so entranced at the sight of a man crocheting a doily.

The minister stepped up to the podium and cleared his throat, wishing Penelo were here. She had a way of making even the most awkward of matters effortless. But the hush in the hall stretched well beyond anything comfortable already, and all he could do was attempt to bull forward regardless.

"As you can see, we have obtained a new ally in the war against—in the war." He tried to keep his expression neutral, but certain faces in the audience drew his interest in their shared discomfort. Draco in particular looked horrified, and both Sam and Dean were pointedly looking elsewhere. Headmistress McGonagall had a hand raised to her forehead and her eyes lifted upward in exasperation. It was an expression he recognized from his student years. "Mr. Voldemort has agreed to assist us in combating the Death Eater—"

"Tom."

There was a sort of gravity in the heavy, insistent tone that all but forced Larsa to turn around. Voldemort had paused in his work, glowering. For all the menace in his stare, Larsa found his eyes drawn to the elaborate yarnwork in his lap. "I beg pardon?"

"My name is _Tom_. Not Voldemort."

"I—ah, of course. My apologies." Larsa turned back around. "_Tom_ shall be assisting us in combating the Death Eater menace. I'm sure we all know of his unique connections. He shall be a valuable asset."

"Minister." McGonagall stood to be better heard. "While I fully understand the necessity of taking advantage of this opportunity, I'm certain many of our allies would view this as a dangerous choice. We require their support." Several foreign representatives nodded.

"All operations will be preformed by Ministry personnel. Their greatest threat is that we shall fail. In short, the risk lies with us."

From the traditionally-Gryffindor table, Clex made a great show of flipping the louder detractors off, then pushed to her feet. "The United States Ministry has always stood by the United Kingdom Ministry, and fuck anyone who doesn't agree. We'll help."

Behind her a thin, pale man snorted loudly and stood. He thought he recognized him as a Muggle diplomat, though he couldn't place him immediately. "You can't make that sort of promise!"

Clex bared her teeth in something Larsa had to call a smile for lack of a better description. "Watch me."

A few other people stood, presumably to show support for one side or the other, or possibly because Voldemort had chosen a new color of thread. Just in case, Larsa decided it was time to call an end to the argument. "Excuse me!" They both looked up at him. "The assistance of the United States Ministry is welcome, and we will gladly discuss such a partnership with them _at a later date_. _Please_ be seated."

The unknown man didn't sit. "You expect us to just accept that—_that_ is on our side. You're all as mad as he is! We're supposed to simply accept help from a man sitting there making a— whatever that thing is?"

A scramble of professors draw Larsa's attention behind him, just in time to see Voldemort draw himself up with the considerable dignity of his age and Dark Lord status. "It," he intoned forebodingly, "is a _ducky_."

***

_2034: A Brief Epilogue_  
Professor Cuthbert Binns cleared his throat at the front of the class, the sound thin and reedy due to his lack of a body to produce it. Together, thirty-odd first year students groaned. A few attempted to madly finish scrawling on their parchment, knowing what was coming. "You may put down your quills. The test is complete. Please leave your scrolls on my desk."

Kaitlin grimaced down at her paper. She'd stalled out too soon, and she knew it. The whole end of the war was missing, and she hadn't managed anything on the effects either. Who wanted to write about the villains just walking into their own cells and leaving their wands in a collection box? And then the entire world sniggering as the war ended with more of a sigh than a bang. The extra length would help a little, but she wasn't sure it would be enough.

What could top a _ducky_?

Maybe she shouldn't have turned it into a story. Papa Riku told it better. He even included the drapes.

Her best friend Lyaka Solidor dropped down into the chair beside her. "Come on, Kaitlin. It couldn't have been that horrible. You're great at this stuff. Even Binns loves you." She tipped her head in thought, then shrugged apologetically. "Okay, maybe not 'loves', but he knows your name."

"Because I blew up his desk!"

"He probably doesn't even remember that part." Lyaka tapped her finger on the solid, old wood of the student desks. "You're a good student. I bet you've got the highest marks out anyone. Except me, of course."

"Yeah, yeah, sure." She started stuffing her things into her bag. It was paopu-shaped, which was kind of inevitable. Destiny Islanders were obsessed with the things. "Get back to me on that when you see it. I didn't even get to the round-up, and that's the end of the story!"

Lyaka laughed. "But didn't you know? In history, there's no such thing as the end."


End file.
